


Remedial Time-Travel 101, or: "Werewolf-isms," as Defined by Harry J. Potter, Linguistic Genius and Human Disaster

by obelisque



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Auror Harry Potter, BAMF Draco Malfoy, BAMF Harry Potter, Bickering, Comedy of Errors, Dark Comedy, Denial of Feelings, Developing Relationship, Everyone Else is Just an Innocent Bystander, Hit-Wizard Draco Malfoy, M/M, Not-So Accidental Kidnapping, Remus Lupin is the Only Adult Around Here, Seven Continents Potter, The Great Azkaban Prison Riot of 1991, Things Can and Do Get Worse, Time Travel, Two Bastards Thrown Back in Time Together, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vulgarity Abounds, Werewolf Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:21:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25391545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obelisque/pseuds/obelisque
Summary: "“If you really are Potter, then tell me something only he would know.”“What do you mean, ‘if I really am Potter?’ I think I know who I am, thank you very much!”“Just do it!”“Well, what’s something only I would know?”Draco stared at him. This complete and utter idiot is going to get us both killed, he realized. We're not going to survive a week."-After a mission gone wrong, Auror Potter and Hit-Wizard Malfoy are thrown back in time. With no way home, and the two now stuck in their younger bodies, they embark on an increasingly disatrous journey to change the future. Well, if they can survive each other first.Featuring: the Great Azkaban Prison Riot of '91, Belligerent Hostage Percy Weasley, Drunken Shenanigans, Prophecy-Snatching, Remus Lupin's No-Good, Very Bad Day, and Several Very Worried Parents.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Gemma Farley/Percy Weasley, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 30
Kudos: 296





	1. IN WHICH DRACO IS BROKE, HARRY SLEEPS AROUND, AND TIME-RELATED SHENANIGANS OCCUR

I

_2014_

Potter waited to approach him until a week after his mother’s death. Draco had spent most of his paycheck on the funeral, which was not much; it had been a somber, solitary affair besides, and nothing like what Narcissa deserved. He would have asked Potter to inter her body in the Black Mausoleum, but he knew her well enough not damage her pride by doing so. She had never been one to beg for anything. Instead he settled for a pauper’s funeral: an unmarked grave in a dodgy little plot of land behind a cottage that had seen better days. At least it was in Wiltshire. There was no epitaph or gravestone, but he’d planted a bed of lilies in the freshly-tilled earth, so that her death would in time produce something beautiful. The only other attendees were Potter, Aunt Andromeda, and a young man with unruly turquoise hair. Nothing was said between them. Draco didn’t cry.

Later that week, Draco was three fingers deep into a bottle of firewhiskey when a familiar voice interrupted what little relief he’d found after a long day of field work. He sighed at the intrusion, but wasn’t surprised in the least. Potter knew he favored drinking at the White Wyvern—a skanky pub situated deep within Knockturn Alley—and had taken to bothering him there when he needed something. Unfortunately, it was more often than not for a chat. Potter seemed to actually _like_ him nowadays, for whatever bloody reason.

“I would have said yes, you know,” Potter said, settling atop the stool next to him. He ordered a pint of pale ale.

“I know.”

“Your mother saved my life. I wanted better for her.”

“You tried. That’s more than I can say for most,” Draco said, absently running a hand over his left forearm. The mark had died twenty years ago with the Dark Lord, but the scar that lived in its absence still ached occasionally, as though in memory of what had been.

There was a moment of silence.

“Er, so you’re still working the Montague case?” Potter ventured awkwardly. Draco was grateful for the change in subject.

“That slag Selwick has been breathing down my neck for the past week about it. Not like I haven’t been bloody trying or anything,” he said, knocking back his last shot. “He’s impossible to track down.”

There were little employment opportunities for ex-convicts in Wizarding London, but Draco would have went and offed himself before ever seeking out muggle work. He wound up just faffing about the city for two years after his initial release from Azkaban, scraping by through odd jobs here and there, and would have continued in the same manner had he not stumbled across a recruitment advert in the _Prophet_ for Hit-Wizards. What caught his eye in particular was the byline “clean record not required!” It was only sensible, really, considering their employee base was predicated almost entirely on criminal types. Unlike Aurors, who were offered certain protections for actions taken in the line of duty, Hit-Wizards and Witches were left to fend for themselves if caught “bending” the law while on a case. Draco had been in and out of Azkaban no less than nine times on account of this. Still better than frying up chips for muggles.

His days were spent hunting down various and sundry dark creatures, magical artifacts, and outlaw wizards; all the while attempting to evade discovery by Aurors or being killed on the job. Draco didn’t think he’d survive another stint in Azkaban. Without occlumency, he doubted he’d have made it through any length of incarceration at all. Granger once called him a recidivist criminal, and although there’d been a hint of a smile on her lips as she’d said it, her eyes had been sad. It had been worse in the beginning, when he’d been adjusting to the bite and the legal restrictions of his new position. He could recall his second incarceration easily.

Draco had been caught breaking into Shyverwretch's Venoms and Poisons during a case and wound up tossed back in the same cell between his mother and father. It had been a full moon that night. He’d kept them up with the change: bones snapping and splintering, skin rending apart like the whole of his body was an open wound, and screams that soon turned into howls. It had been the most humiliating experience of his life. His mother had not spoken to him for days after, but the next morning his father had said something to Draco he’d never forget. He had been… kind.

“I want you to live,” Lucius said, his once-commanding voice reduced to a mere rasp. “Live to spite them, and live to prove them wrong. Then be free. Your mother will come to understand this, in time. If she doesn’t, then so be it.”

Lucius had rendered Draco inarticulate in the span of one conversation. Because he was used to being a disappointment, and a failure; neither suited to the light or dark, and a half-breed, besides. If he’d followed the traditions of the Black and Malfoy lines, Draco would have killed himself before ever letting himself turn—let alone live publicly as a werewolf. He should have done it rather than degrade his family with his existence. But he hadn’t been able to; his final act of cowardice, and one he’d assumed he would never live down. He’d been wrong.

After that day, he served his sentence with little complaint and dug himself out of the gutter once he was released. He was trying, for his father and mother—but most of all, for himself. Yet Draco could not help but think of how his life might have turned out otherwise. If he still had the Malfoy fortune, none of this would be a problem. He’d have freed his mother and father before their deaths. He’d have never been bitten. But it was gone. After the war, those most affected by the Death Eaters and their puppet ministry had demanded restitution—which, of course, had come from them. Now he was stuck paying obscene amounts of reparations in recompense for his supposed evil deeds for the rest of his bloody life. It hadn’t ended with the vaults, properties, and holdings; what was left over ate up nearly seventy percent of his salary, which was a less than stable source of income. He would die with nothing and no one.

Draco sighed.

“It was a total cock-up all around, mate. Montague shouldn’t have been able to access the ministry in the first place,” Potter said, as though sensing the direction of his thoughts. In that moment, he looked unbearably kind.

Graham Montague had broken into the Department of Mysteries and stolen five experimental time-turners the week prior. He’d killed or likewise incapacitated seven ministry officials along the way—including Unspeakable Patil, who had been the primary developer of the artifacts in question. The healers at St. Mungo’s didn’t know if she would ever wake. Trying to track down Montague had become the DMLE’s top priority ever since. Aside from his strange interlude of grief, the case had taken up nearly all Draco’s free time. He’d narrowed the possible locations down to Enigmatic Alley and Carkitt Market, but his contacts hadn’t been able to turn up anything conclusive; just half-remembered sightings and whispers.

“Too right,” Draco agreed, a little too late to sound natural.

Potter ran a hand through his hair. “There has to be a partner of some kind. Someone we haven’t found yet. Not unless—”

“You lot need a touch up, yeah?” The bartender cut in, gesturing at their respective empty glasses. She was new, Draco noted.

Her eyes glittered in the dim light of the pub, hair spilling long and dark across her shoulders, which were colored a deep shade of lilac. She was clearly the offspring of some breed of fae and a wizard. His eyes strayed to her breasts, which spilled out of the low-cut top she was wearing. Potter’s gaze was likewise occupied.

“Yeah. Another pint for me, and a shot of firewhiskey for this one,” Potter said, clapping Draco on the back. Potter was leering at the woman a bit now, but she didn’t seem to mind. The cheeky bird even winked at him as she sauntered over to the taps.

The service at the Wyvern left something to be desired, but since they had both been banned from the Leaky Cauldron, they’d taken to drinking here—albeit for different reasons. Draco was a known criminal and a half-breed, so he hadn’t been in since before the war; Potter had probably been caught shagging some poor bird or bloke in one of the back rooms there, although his predilections towards men and exhibitionist tendencies hadn’t been news for a good decade now. He wasn’t a proper poofter, really, since he’d been married to Ginny Weasley twice over and still regularly picked up women, but neither did he seem to mind bumming around with men. Draco had been shocked at first. His idea of shirt-lifters had always been more of the nancy-ish persuasion, like Terry Boot and Ernie Macmillan—not Potter, Head Auror and dark wizard hunter extraordinaire. It still surprised him sometimes.

He did not need to tell Potter that wizards did not take kindly to homosexuals and their ilk. That much was obvious. It was traditionally seen as a sign of impotence and a failure to continue the family line in a community where blood was everything. Draco knew that if it had been anyone else, Potter would have been shunned for his open indiscretions. He didn’t think Potter could help it, though; living under the constant threat of death or punishment in his formative years had seemingly left an indelible mark on him. Not the shagging blokes part—which Draco didn’t think one could choose—but rather, Potter’s apparent inability to keep a steady relationship. He seemed unsuited to stillness and kinetic by nature; someone whose freedom came at the cost of their relationships. Or perhaps he was looking too deeply into it.

Draco had never given much thought to his sexuality. He’d been in love with Pansy in school and had intended to marry her. He hadn’t minded that she was snub-nosed and a little spotty, or that there was often a shrill note to her voice. He’d loved her regardless. But in the ensuing fallout of the war, he had broken off their engagement. No money, no prospects, and an impeding incarceration in Azkaban—if he really cared about Pansy, how could he drag her into that? She’d been furious with him, and in a startling moment of bravery, had claimed she didn’t care. That she’d stay with him anyways. It was a nice dream. But Draco had known better, and said to her, “You will care, and you will hate me for it. I’d rather us part as friends now, than lose what we have forever.”

They still saw each other sometimes. He flooed Pansy when her husband was away on business and her children—two girls, both of whom had her dark skin and their father’s wild auburn curls—were visiting another family. It wasn’t sexual or romantic, just two people who had known each other for a very long time reminiscing about their lives. He still loved her, though, and probably always would. But he was glad Pansy had listened to him. He would have broken her heart.

Perhaps he was like Potter, and just didn’t know it. He liked birds, to be sure, but he wasn’t actively repulsed by men; however, neither did he harbor any obvious inclinations towards them. A large part of him reckoned that he would’ve known by now, being well into his thirties, and there was another that dared him to see what would happen. He could always just try and see the next time he went looking for a shag. How could being a known invert make things worse for him? Not bloody likely.

Darkly amused, Draco could already imagine the _Prophet_ headline: _MALFOY HEIR SEEN BUMMING BLOKE IN BACK ALLEY. Draco Malfoy, thirty-four, was spotted committing unmentionable acts with an unknown wizard in Horizont Alley late last night. Is he doing this to spite his remaining family—Lord Lucius Malfoy, sixty, incarcerated—or is what they say about Azkaban true? Turn to page six for the rest of the torrid tale, as well as interviews from former classmates. Lisa Turpin says, “Well, I always thought it rather strange he had these two massive blokes hanging around him all the time, not to mention the obsession he had with his hair. So I suppose some part of me always assumed he took it up the arse…”_

Well, “bloke” being the operative term, of course. These days the only shags he had were with his fellow dark creatures, who couldn’t catch what it was he carried. He’d off himself before ever passing the curse on to a child of his. Vampires, fae, and certain corporeal spirits were safe options because there was no chance of cross-species reproduction. Now witches and other werewolves, however… No sense in risking it, that was certain. The last thing he needed was to knock up some poor bird with the spawn of a beast.

He knew Potter had taken to shagging dark creatures, which for a regular wizard Draco rather likened to sticking your cock in a beehive and hoping the buggers didn’t have a mind to sting you for it. Either way, the daft bastard really was going to catch something if he wasn’t careful. Draco just hoped it wouldn’t be lycanthropy. Danger fucks were hardly worth the risk. One day he’d end up catching something a trip to St. Mungo’s couldn’t clear up, which would really prove to be the tragicomic culmination of their lives.

One night when Potter had been particularly pissed, he’d started to mutter about cupboards and locked doors and some disturbing sport called “Harry Hunting.” Draco had not mentioned the incident, but neither had he forgotten—nor had he looked at the other man the same since. Perhaps that’s why Potter had taken a liking to him. Similar inclinations towards danger, and similar tragedies. In his youth he’d measured himself against his father, his mother, and this man—who, he supposed, had been his childhood foil. Now Potter was one of the only people who would willingly be seen with him. That afforded him some measure of loyalty from Draco, who was surprised by how much he’d come to tolerate the other’s presence in his life.

“Here you go, lads,” the fae interjected again, setting their drinks down. She lowered her voice, gaze fixed on Potter. “I get off in five. Meet me in the back if you’re up for a quick shag.” She left with a delicate sway of the hips.

Potter grinned. “I might need to end our chat early, mate,” he said, loosening the collar of his robes. Draco rolled his eyes.

“As long as you and that sket don’t get me banned. I’m already running out of pubs as it is,” he said, tipping the shot back easily.

“I’d never do anything of the sort, and neither would she,” Potter shot back, green eyes glinting mischievously. “Now keep out of trouble, you hear? I need someone to insult me regularly, else my head’ll swell,” he said, not bothering to refute the “sket” accusation.

Potter got up and trailed after the fae, leaving Draco alone once more.

II

Two days later, a letter came in the post for him. Draco did not often get letters, aside from the occasional notice of an impending liaison with Pansy, or a verbose and appallingly vain summary of Blaise’s latest world travels. The latter’s most recent report had listed the twenty-seven different types of French wine he’d purportedly tried while vacationing in Cannes. This information had only served to make Draco wonder how he’d made it seven years without attempting to throttle Blaise at least once. But _this_ letter was different. It was from Potter.

Draco stared at the shred of parchment in his hands. Potter’s uniquely horrid scrawl made his identity obvious, and his choice of owl even more so: a large, snowy beast called that recalled to mind the one of his schooldays. It looked hastily written, and even had a smear of lipstick along one edge:

_Montague sighted in Carkitt Market. Look for a place called “Cogg and Bell Clockmakers.” Some potential boyhood connection between Cogg and Montague was sent to me by one of my contacts. I’m going to investigate around five tomorrow morning. You’re welcome to join. If anything does turn up, the damage is on me._

Although Draco hated the thought of accepting what was, essentially, charity, his cupboards were worryingly spare and the last thing he needed was to be shunted off to Azkaban again for defaulting on his payments to the Ministry. There was something truly awful about the magical legal system, he thought, because it seemed to him there was no in-between doing hard time or being fully exonerated. They could impose fines or mandate community service hours, rather than sending a squad of Aurors after him each time this occurred. Even the bloody muggles did that.

Now Potter’s arrangement was certainly unorthodox, not to mention legally dubious, but Draco supposed he had offered due to some amalgamation of guilt, pity, and that insatiable longing for excitement he hid from no one. What a reckless fucking bastard. Not that this excursion of theirs likely to turn up any real information, as Montague had been underground for weeks now. Carkitt Market was one of Draco’s speculated hideouts for him, but this seemed rather… convenient. But the Head Auror was asking, and so he’d comply rather than risk the only stable employment he’d managed to find.

At any rate, Draco had no real pride to speak of, did he? He was one step above living in the streets, and the only flat he could afford was one situated overtop a manky club in Horizont Alley—Wizarding London’s red-light district. Some of the cheapest inner-city accommodations were found in Horizont, and while more than fulfilled his need for easy access to both the Ministry and the labyrinthine sprawl of magical alleyways, he found certain… downsides to living there. Like the smell, for one, and the racket of the Weird Sisters cover band the club beneath him employed nightly. But few landlords would rent to half-breeds, so he made do.

The next morning he woke early and dressed himself in the protective leathers most Hit-Wizards wore, before applying a light glamour to alter the appearance of his hair and clothes. The magic was easier to maintain long-term if he kept the disguise simple, and people rarely recognized him when he wasn’t blond. He fingered his fringe, which was run through with gray. Well, _mostly_ blond. Draco tried not to think about how much being a werewolf had and would continue to age him. For his part, Potter hardly looked a day over twenty-five. He sighed. At least his hairline wasn’t receding.

He arrived right before ten, and spotted Potter’s familiar figure lounging in the shadows of a nearby shop. The sky above was dark still. Dawn would not come for several hours yet. Potter, as usual, looked vaguely unkempt even with the heavy glamour he employed. Visual magics tended not to work on dark creatures, since they could identify wizards beneath those disguises through physical means. To him, Potter always smelled overwhelmingly of mint, and something fresh, like cedar—or, perhaps, pine.

“You ready, Malfoy?” Potter said, eyes flicking over to the storefront opposite. His skin was flushed with excitement, lips twitching ever so slightly as he tried and failed to suppress an eager grin.

“Would I’d have bothered coming if I wasn’t?” Draco said sarcastically. “Let’s just get this over with.” The irony of Montague potentially hiding out in a clockmaker’s was not lost on him.

He applied a disillusionment charm and stalked towards Cogg and Bell’s. Potter repeated the motion and followed him closely from behind, deftly brandishing his wand as they drew nearer to the building. Already, the tension in the air had begun to thicken, as though it too had sensed what was to come. They crept soundlessly across the cobblestones, careful to keep to the more shadowed areas of the street. “Cogg and Bell Clockmakers” was written in faded gold lettering across the shop’s aged sign, which hung precariously overtop the doorway. A layer of dust covered the display window, so thick as to nearly render it opaque. No movement could be discerned from within. They were going to have to break in.

As they neared the entrance, Potter flicked his wand in a neat upward stroke, disarming any warning spells Montague may have cast. Had there been any traps present, it would have instantly alerted him to their presence. Draco positioned himself near the doorknob, while Potter stood on the side opposite, ready to venture inside upon his signal. He nodded at him and proceeded to silently unlock the door, stepping back as Potter darted across the threshold. His wand now poised to strike, Draco soon followed after.

Immediately, the he could smell old rot, causing bile to churn within Draco’s gut. Potter’s face twitched violently in response, eyes narrowing. Over in the corner lay the corpse of Agatha Cogg, splayed face-down across the very countertop where she’d once sold her goods. She’d clearly been dead for several days, body now well into decomposition and crawling with insects. One emerged from her left socket and scuttled across the counter. Foul couldn’t even begin to describe the scene. Draco’s grip tightened around his wand.

“A cutting curse to the throat—swift, efficient. She bled out too quickly to feel any pain,” Potter said quietly.

“Cogg’s been dead for days. Montague might not even be here anymore,” Draco said. “But if he was stupid enough to hang around, then we’ll bloody well skewer him.”

“Agreed.”

After running a meticulous search of the ground floor, which turned up nothing, they started upstairs. When he and Potter reached the first-story landing, a loud _bang_ echoed down the hallway, stopping both short. The sound came from the room at the end of the hall—a space barred only by an aged and molding door, which shuddered and grew still by turns. There was a strange, mechanical whirring that punctuated each bang, but that was not all he heard: a series of loud, increasingly frenetic mutters were interspersed throughout the racket, each word spoken with disquieting fervor.

“It’s working… it’s finally working,” Montague hissed in triumph. “This is going to change everything.” His final proclamation was undeniably ominous in nature.

Draco slowed his pace and proceeded to inspect the corridor for warning spells, disarming several, while Potter crept along just ahead of him. They had worked together on several occasions prior, although it had never been just the two of them, so he and Potter had some passing familiarity with each other’s fighting techniques. Draco knew Potter was more adept at close-range offensive maneuvers, whereas he preferred to duel at a distance, so he was content to allow him the first strike.

Once outside the door, Draco positioned himself off to the right, while Potter crouched down on the side opposite. Turning to him, Potter nodded to indicate her readiness. Draco kicked down the door, which crumpled easily under his enhanced strength, wand held aloft. Potter leapt into the fray, firing off spell after spell at their target. Having been caught unawares, Montague barely managed to dodge the hail of spell-fire, rolling gracelessly across the carpet.

Having quickly regained his bearings, Montague spat out an unknown curse in retaliation, which manifested itself as a jet of sickly yellow light. Potter dropped to his knees and let the spell sail over him, while Draco dove off to the side. He crashed into one of the many low tables lining the walls, which buckled instantly under his weight. Thrown to the floor, he staggered unsteadily to his feet, steadying himself against the wall. Potter had closed the distance between himself and Montague, slowly backing the other man into a corner. There was a look of wild wrath upon his face, and Draco was suddenly reminded of why Potter was the most feared man in the Wizarding World. No longer was he an eccentric former schoolmate, and neither was he the brazen youth of his childhood memories. This was the man who had killed the Dark Lord.

The outcome of their ambush appeared certain—at least, until Draco saw something move out of the corner of his eye. On the far side of the room, he could see the distinctive distortion of the disillusionment charm. He recalled what Potter’s earlier remark about a second conspirator, and quietly cursed himself for having forgotten it in the chaos. Draco shot off a hex in their direction, which they not only dodged but also had the unfortunate side-effect of distracting Potter long enough for Montague to dart out of the corner and across the room.

The next spell Draco fired caught the accomplice head-on, blasting them back into the wall hard enough to leave a hole in the plaster. The disillusionment charm dispersed upon her losing consciousness, and it revealed a bedraggled-looking Ravenclaw whom he vaguely recognized as having been in the year below him in school.

Montague lunged for the back table, where he’d presumably been working prior to their assault. Cogs, gears, and gilt wire were swept to the floor, sacrificed in search of one of the partly dissembled time-turners scattered about. Potter was already firing off another deluge of curses, but Montague was adept enough to deflect or shield himself from them. Even if he managed to duel Potter to a stalemate, which was unlikely, Montague still could not fend off the both of them. It was only a matter of time until they subdued or killed him. But perhaps that was not his intention at all.

Draco’s eyes flickered to the time-turner. The mad bastard was actually going to _use_ it. An experimental time-turner. He was moving before Montague had the chance to activate the device, certain that his werewolf constitution would make his chances of surviving whatever came next better than Potter’s. Montague flicked it on with a neat twist of the wrist, and aimed it their way. The time-turner was already beginning to spin as it arced towards them—

“Not bloody likely, you loony fucking cunt!” He yelled, throwing himself bodily in front of Potter in order to take on the brunt of Montague’s attack.

He didn’t know what, exactly, was going to happen next; he only hoped it wouldn’t hurt too badly. Or if it did, that it would be over quick. But Potter clearly had another idea, and rather than allowing Draco the dignity of his death or dismemberment, instead latched onto him like he was trying to wrest the both of them out of the way. That was nice and all, but now they were both going to suffer whatever horrific consequences that were going occur as a result of impact. Everything was moving much too fast, yet Draco still had enough of his wits about him to reach out and grab Montague’s leg in a fit of supreme vindictiveness. If they had to die, then so did he.

Before it ever reached him, however, the time-turner expanded in haze of golden light that consumed them all. Draco felt nothing—no pain, not even the pressure of impact—only a faint wind brushing lightly past his face…

Then he disappeared.


	2. IN WHICH THE SIDE EFFECTS OF TIME-TRAVEL LARGELY RESEMBLE DRUNKENESS, DRACO BREAKS DOWN A DOOR, AND HARRY REFUSES TO DISCUSS THE LIVERPOOL INCIDENT

I

_1991_

Draco awoke in slow gradations. He felt vaguely hung-over, and still a bit pissed if he was being quite honest with himself. He staggered to his feet, swaying unsteadily as he did so. The world around him appeared indistinct and hazy at the edges. People were saying his name, but their voices were distorted, as though having passed through water. Perhaps, he reckoned, it was less that he was drunk and more that he’d been bludgeoned over the head. And more than once, at that. He didn’t know where he was, and neither could he seem to recall the past several hours. All he remembered was the vague promise of meeting up with Potter to investigate a potential hideout of Montague’s. Potter. Of course this had something to do with him. Draco still didn’t know what had happened, but throttling that bastard senseless seemed like a good place to start.

“—Draco. Draco!” someone said shrilly. It sounded vaguely like a girl.

“What?” He slurred, trying to turn towards her but instead stumbling into the nearest wall. “What the bloody hell is it?”

“Y-you’re drunk! Or… something!” She accused, then sniffed primly. “And don’t swear at me—it’s unbecoming! I’m a lady!”

Draco flipped her the two-fingered salute. “Listen here, you great sket. I’ll swear at whomever I bloody please. Now piss off. I need to go take care of—well, important things. Very important things,” he said. His voice still sounded garbled, but the world was becoming clearer with each passing moment.

“How dare you—” Her shriek was cut off when he made his way into the corridor and slammed the door behind him.

If he’d been in his right mind, he would have recognized the voice as being that of a young Pansy Parkinson. Instead all Draco realized that he was currently on the Hogwarts Express, and that he was a bit shorter than usual.

“This is mad,” he muttered to himself. “Absolutely mad.”

“Er, Draco. What are you doing?” Another familiar voiced asked him. It belonged to a large, fat child who also appeared to be taller than him. How odd.

“Not now, Crabbe,” he told him absently, not registering what, exactly, he had just said. “I’ve got to find someone.”

“Oh, okay. Should we come, too?” He gestured to another, equally massive child. This one looked even more vacant than the first.

“Of course not.”

“…Alright?”

He left the two of them there, slightly confused and still awaiting further instructions, and began to make his way along the Hogwarts Express. His nose twitched intermittently as he searched out Potter’s familiar scent, pushing through large swathes of rowdy children until he reached the right compartment.

“POTTER,” he said loudly, and, rather than having the good sense to just open the door, punched his fist through it. He broke completely through the wood upon the first attempt, but rather than following through on another strike kicked it down instead. Bloody werewolf strength.

Inordinately furious, Draco stepped over the mangled remnants of the compartment door to find two startled-looking children inside. One was a gangly ginger brat and the other was a vaguely concussed-looking child with a mop of dark hair. He was sprawled across the floor.

“What the bloody hell—you again?” The ginger yelled. “Why did you break down the door?”

“I’m searching for a bloke called Harry Potter. Often goes by Harry, sometimes by Potter. Looks like a bastard. Have you recently seen someone matching this description?”

“This is him, you daft loon!”

“What the hell do you mean, ‘bastard?’” The other one slurred, staggering upright. He was rather small and awkward-looking, but the curse scar and green eyes were unmistakable. He even smelled of mint.

It was then that Draco finally recalled the events that had precipitated his departure and subsequent reappearance on the Hogwarts Express. He also recalled that before disappearing he’d latched onto Montague, which could mean all manner of trouble. This could very well not be Potter, if they had indeed gotten mixed-up during the trip. He drew his wand and pointed it at the other boy.

“If you really are Potter, then tell me something only he would know.”

“What do you mean, ‘if I really am Potter?’ I think I know who I am, thank you very much!”

“Just do it!”

“Well, what’s something only I would know?”

Draco stared at him. _This complete and utter idiot is going to get us both killed_ , he realized. _We're not going to survive a week_.

Draco considered his options. “Liverpool. The scouse with the—” He began, only to be quickly cut off by an embarrassed-looking Potter.

“—dog collar and latex get-up. Yeah, that was humiliating. I don’t think I need to verify your identity now, you rotten prat. The only one who knew about that was you.”

“Why would that information be exclusive to me? You know I despise hearing about your ill-fated conquests. They’re always so unpleasant.”

“Perhaps that’s why I do it,” Potter said, glaring at him. He still sounded vaguely plastered. “Since you—”

“WHAT IS GOING ON?” The ginger—a young Ron Weasley, presumably—shouted. He looked even more confused than usual.

“…I really don’t have a good answer for you, mate.”

“Neither do I. Nor do I particularly care.”

Before Weasley could interject again, there was a loud crash from down the corridor. He and Potter glanced at each other. Montague. Damn it. If they had returned, then so had he. They started towards the noise at once, both with wands drawn and ready to fire. Although he and Potter were clearly suffering from the lingering effects of their accidental temporal excursion, which largely resembled drunkenness, they were no less intent on seeing their case through for it. Besides, who was better equipped on a train full of children to deal with a mad criminal than them?

They were met with chaos at the scene. A group of older years were gathered around a compartment, wands poised at a figure cloistered away within. There was a high-pitched whimpering coming from within, punctuated by the errant drunken slur. It seemed Montague had a hostage.

“Stand down, Montague!” A teenage Percy Weasley said, voice run through with a faint tremor. “You’d better let her go, or—”

“Or, what? You’ll hex me?” Montague said mockingly. “I doubt any of you will—” He cut himself off at the sight of Draco and Potter, becoming incandescent with rage. “You! Potter, Malfoy!” He shouted, digging the tip of his wand deeper into the temple of his hostage, which appeared to be a first-year girl.

“Let her go, Montague—else it won’t just be Azkaban for you. I’ll make sure you’re kissed myself,” Potter said, stepping closer to him. It was not a threat but a promise.

“Likewise, you mad cunt,” Draco sneered. “Say you do off her, then I’d just kill you regardless. No trial, no dementors. I daresay I’d even enjoy it.”

“The circumstances are extenuating enough to warrant it,” Potter said.

“You won’t be doing anything of the sort. I’ll put you down like the dog you are, Malfoy, and if I had the time, I’d make it slow. I always did hate you, even in school. Same goes for you, Potter.” These were not the words of a stable individual, made even more disturbing by the varying coherency of his speech.

Already tiring of his game, Draco struck first. He slashed his wand in a brutal arc that had Montague reacting before he even realized what he’d done. The hostage was left unprotected in the interim. This opening allowed Potter to retrieve her, and he summoned her towards him. One of the surrounding students latched onto her immediately and pulled the girl into the crowd. Now Montague was not only fielding spells from Draco but also from Potter, and the two were quickly closing the distance between them. He was going to lose, and this time there was no accomplice to intercede on his behalf.

Montague seemed to have realized this too, and muttered particularly long and vile-sounding curse that manifested as an arc of violet light. Instead of attempting to deflect it with a shield charm, which didn’t work on darker spells, Potter transfigured the floor into a makeshift barricade. Upon making contact with it, the light ricocheted back towards Montague and hit him right between the eyes. For a brief moment, Montague expanded outwards, features purpling and distorting beyond recognition as he continued to swell.

Then he exploded.

The resulting blast of blood and innards left Draco and Potter doused from head to foot in scarlet, as well as a good portion of the crowd behind them. Most of the children started to scream. All Draco could muster the energy to do was wipe the blood from his eyes. At least the idiot was taken care of.

“Well,” Draco began, spitting out a mouthful of Montague, “that was horrible.”

“Oh, really?” Potter said. He looked rather a mess, hair standing on end and features nearly obscured by red. “I had no idea.”

“Yes. Not to mention unexpected.”

“I’d reckon the most ‘unexpected’ aspect about all this is the time-travel.”

“Bloody time-turners.”

“This is why Patil shouldn’t have been experimenting with them in the first place. Things tend to go wrong immediately when they get involved.”

Draco paused. “If we’ve travelled back in time to our younger bodies, then why am I still a werewolf? You’d think experimental magic would be good for something, at least.”

“You know already?”

“Yes. How else would a child have been able to dismantle a bloody door? Besides, I can just… tell.”

A considering look crossed Potter’s face. “Wait—if Montague’s the one who brought us here, accidentally or not, then how are we going to get home now that he’s dead?”

“Bollocks,” Draco said irritably. “I don’t suppose we’d be lucky enough for it to wear off?”

“Doubtful.”

“Well, what the hell does that mean for us?”

“I think that—”

A cold female voice interrupted their conversation. “I’d very much like an explanation for this,” a sixth-year he recognized as being Slytherin prefect Gemma Farley. She too was bloodied, but looked no less fierce for it. Her wand was aimed at his heart.

“—we’re fucked,” Potter finished grimly.

Well. He wasn’t wrong.


	3. IN WHICH HOSTAGES ARE TAKEN, A POLTERGEIST MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE BEEN SHAGGED, AND DRACO USES HIS "WEREWOLF-ISMS" FOR NEFARIOUS PURPOSES

I

_1991_

Now faced with multiple wands pointed at him, and all by children no less, not to mention the various traumatized bystanders behind them, Draco reviewed his available options. The more morally reprehensible ones appeared the most viable at present. Well then. He was committing to being a criminal in both the past and the future, he supposed. His father would be so proud.

Draco shot off a disarming spell and then summoned the closest person towards him—which, as it turned out, was a rather irate-looking Percy Weasley. Although a gifted wizard in his own right, Weasley was still fifteen and untested, whereas Draco was a hard bastard who had scraped through countless battle through his ruthlessness alone. The boy hardly stood a chance, and was bound up in spells in less than the time it took to sneeze.

“Stand back,” Draco yelled, trying to appear suitably intimidating, despite being eleven years old, “I’ve got a hostage!”

Potter, ever the genius, followed suit and summoned another child towards them. Judging by the gravity-defying riot of brown curls, it was Granger. How… unfortunate. Time-travel was the just gift that kept on giving, wasn’t it?

“I’ve… also got a hostage?”

“We don’t need two hostages, you bloody fucking imbecile. Put her back!” Draco yell-whispered.

“But now we’ve got twice the leverage.”

“And twice the dead weight. Not to mention it’ll be more difficult to control two of them, rather than one.”

“Ah, well. It’s a little late for that now. I’m not too well-versed on this side of negotiations. Usually I’m the one heroically rescuing people at the last minute.”

“How you were ever promoted to Head Auror is beyond me, you brainless sex addict.”

“ _This,_ coming from the bloke who accidentally shagged a poltergeist? Or am I remembering that wrong?”

“I thought we agreed not to discuss that again! And it wasn’t a poltergeist, it was a wraith!”

“It doesn’t matter if it was a poltergeist or not, Malfoy. What makes it funny is the fact that it was an accident. Besides, I wouldn’t have brought it up, if you hadn’t—”

“Potter. Malfoy,” Farley said, voice cold. “Release the hostages, or I will not hesitate to use lethal force against you.”

Draco turned his attention back to the girl before them. He recalled how self-serious Farley had been in the two years he’d been housemates with her. He then, with a sinking feeling, also recalled how completely and utterly obsessed with Percy Weasley she had been. Draco’s eyes drifted back towards the struggling boy in his arms. _Oh, hells._

Potter, for his part, looked bemused. “I’m being threatened by a teenager. Again. It’s almost like being back in school with you. She’s got the dramatics down and everything.”

“Alright, you idiot. I’m finished with this nonsense,” Draco hissed at him, then transfigured the floor around them into a makeshift barrier. Farley shrieked in rage on the other side, and the carpet-mound shuddered beneath an intense hail of spellfire.

Now with some cover in place, he hefted Weasley over his shoulder and blasted the window open. Potter tried to do the same, but his thin, stick-like arms and legs couldn’t quite manage Granger’s weight. Draco groaned and levitated the girl, leaving Potter room to reinforce the barrier behind them before they both took a running start and leapt out the hole in the train. Granger and Weasley began to scream bloody murder at this, and did not stop until Potter cushioned their impact with a well-timed spell, followed by a silencing charm. They bounced across the grass and down an embankment, coming to a stop beneath a large tree.

As the train sped off, a dark head peeked out of the destroyed compartment. It was Farley again, damn her. “Percy!” Farley cried in the distance, “I will not rest until I save you!”

Percy, for his part, looked as though he was now contemplating whether he even wanted to be rescued anymore. Draco didn’t particularly blame him. Potter had begun to attempt, rather ineffectually, to console Granger, who was trying to either punch or slap him through her magical bindings, and also, quite possibly, to glare at him hard enough to incite spontaneous combustion. Well. If anyone could do it…

“So, we’re eleven,” Draco said, after he’d caught his breath.

“That certainly appears to be the case.”

“And fugitives.”

“I mean, we did just kidnap two children.”

“It would’ve only been _one_ child if you had any bloody sense in that empty head of yours.”

“I have plenty of sense, thank you. Enough not to fuck a poltergeist, unlike someone else I know.”

“I told you, it was a wraith! And like you’re one to talk, you sket.”

“At least I get some, Malfoy. It’s been months for you, hasn’t it? Even longer, perhaps? Well, guess what, you bastard—I had sex with ten different people last week, none of them poltergeists! At the very least, they were all alive.”

“That’s not something I would brag about. Ever! And it wasn’t a poltergeist! And it was an accident!”

“It was still dead, so what does it matter!”

“I’m sure they feel very different when you’re inside them!”

Throughout the argument, they had steadily moved closer to each other until they were very nearly nose-to-nose. Potter’s eyes looked very green, and he seemed quite devastatingly young despite being covered head-to-toe in blood.

Draco ground his teeth. “I know one thing for certain, Potter.”

"What’s that, Malfoy?”

“The only people who’ll want to shag you like this are nonces and their ilk, so get ready for a _six-year dry spell_ you insufferable fucking moron!”

At this realization, Potter went very pale. But then after a long, tense moment, he cracked a grin and both boys burst out laughing. Well, hysterics, more like. The stress of the past day, as well as the lingering side-effects of time-travel had begun to wear on Draco, and he felt drained. But then again, he always did. Part and parcel of being a werewolf, after all.

“Let’s get out of here, else you’ll have to put your werewolf-isms to good use when the Aurors arrive.” Potter pulled Granger into his arms, feet planted in a stance suited to apparition.

Draco paused. A line formed between his pale brows. “Werewolf-isms?” He repeated, although he wasn’t even sure he wanted to know, not really. The inside of Potter’s head was a dangerous place.

“You know. The strength, the heightened sense of smell. Those kinds of things.”

“ _Werewolf-isms_. That’s almost worse than Montague calling me a bloody dog.”

“Now, you’re just messing with me, mate.”

“Yes,” Draco said, smiling thinly, “yes, I am.”

Weasley chose that moment to grunt loudly in protest. He was wriggling on the ground where Draco had deposited him like a worm, the _incarcerous_ ropes pulled taut around his arms. He was really giving it a good effort. Granger appeared to still be in the process of trying to set Potter on fire with her mind. It wasn’t working—yet. With that one, it was usually just a matter of time.

“So, what are we going to do with them?” Potter asked. He looked put-out by Granger’s obvious hatred.

“We can’t leave them here, that much is apparent. Is there a good place to drop them off?”

“Er, Hermione’s parents’ house, maybe? I can’t recall the exact address though. I didn’t visit them until they had moved—well, forcibly relocated, really—to Australia. Give me a moment…”

“Take all the time you need, Potter. It’s not as though the Aurors will be after us for kidnapping soon or anything.”

“The sarcasm is not helping, Malfoy.”

“Here’s a definitely _un-_ sarcastic suggestion, Potter. How about you ask the person living there for the address? Or a location close by you're familiar enough with in order to apparate there without splinching yourself.”

“But she’s just going to yell at me. I hate it when Hermione yells at me.”

“Don’t we all.”

“Alright, then. Have it your way,” Potter said snidely, and removed the silencing charm on Granger.

“This is completely and totally illegal! I can’t believe you’re breaking the rules, not to mention being so vulgar! You’re—despicable! I’ll never tell you where my parents live! I—” Her shrill tirade was cut off when Potter hastily replaced the charm. 

There was a sheepish expression on his face. When he ran a hand through his hair, it stuck up in dark clumps. How he managed to be so—so himself, even like this, amazed Draco.

“That… did not go well,” Potter said after a moment.

“Terribly is the word I would use. Disastrously works, too.”

“Are you going to be useful, Malfoy, or are you going to stand there and just be a bastard?”

“Let’s take them with us for now, and decide on the drop-off point when I’m not covered in Montague’s insides.”

“It would be good to know where we’re going, wouldn’t it?”

“Point taken,” Draco said, then, “Is Grimmauld Place an option?”

“Potentially. There shouldn’t be a _fidelius_ on it yet, just some blood wards that I can make quick work of. It’s all rather dependent on whether I’m recognized as Lord Black or not in this body, since I already know where the house is.”

“Good enough.”

He picked up Weasley and extended his free arm to Potter, who grasped his forearm tightly after rather awkwardly wrangling Granger back into a much detested embrace. Their eyes met for a moment, and Draco saw a shadow of his own growing excitement in Potter’s, and grinned. Then the pair vanished with a thunderous _crack!_

II

They did not reappear anywhere near Grimmauld Place. Draco, Potter, Granger, and Weasley, did, however, materialize in a muggle garden somewhere in northern England, landing in an inelegant heap. Remus Lupin, who just so happened to have been enjoying a rather calm, if tepid, supper of crisps and canned beans in the shed of said garden, was startled by the noise. He had been squatting there for a little over a week, and had seen nothing that indicated the presence of either witches or wizards thus far, so the apparition came as a surprise. When he ran out, wand in one hand and crisp bag in the other, he was met by a tangle of limbs and groaning, swearing children—one of which he recognized at once.

_“Harry?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments! <3


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